


Speak of the Devil

by 5oftHearted5adist



Series: It's a Large Comic Universe After-all [1]
Category: Daredevil (Comics), Daredevil (TV), Jessica Jones (TV), Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: A bit of bodily harm, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Daredevil is a Troll, Fluff and Crack, Mild Language, Over-Sensitivity, Some Explatives
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2019-03-16
Packaged: 2019-09-22 02:14:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17051138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/5oftHearted5adist/pseuds/5oftHearted5adist
Summary: IDK, Daredevil being... the devil, but not really.  Jessica Jones being a badass... sometimes.  Punisher being himself.  Spider-man slinging quips.  Very abrupt... Marvel character one-shots.  If someone wants to roll with any of these or make them longer, I fully support that.





	1. Snow and Spiders

Daredevil stifled a chuckle as he dropped down behind his prey, cheerfully lobbing his perfectly crafted snowball at Spider-man’s surprised face just as the arachnid themed hero turned to greet him.

Spider-man’s alarmed ‘hey!’ and spluttered chastisement of his spider-sense’s failure to inform him of ‘impending snowballing’ was infinitely amusing. The retaliatory snowball was even more so.

Soon the two were waging a rooftop snowball battle of epic proportions, garnering quite a bit of attention from the New Yorkers below as they leapt between buildings and performed uncalled for flips and twists to find the perfect angles to nail the other with packed snow. It was fortunate that the perfectly sticky snow hadn't been accompanied by much ice or their shenanigans would have been even more dangerous.

Eventually, however, they both flopped down in exhaustion – rooftop snowball fights being far more strenuous than normal ones.

“I will get you back for this.” Spider-man gasped, trying to settle his breathing.

“You can try” Daredevil challenged playfully, stretching in order to best enjoy the coolness of the snow through his armor. Of course the sprawled position reminded him of something he’d done as a child. Smirking, he moved his arms and legs in and out, scraping the snow away.

Spider-man snorted as he realized the irony of what Daredevil was doing, “you make one pretty funny looking snow angel DD; it has horns instead of a halo.”

Daredevil laughed, “think you can do better?”

Spider-man hummed and, instead of sliding his arms to make wings, he punched three more sets of arms into the snow before standing up. “Ta-da! Eight-limbed Spider-man snow impression!”

Daredevil also stood, brushing the snow from his back. Tilting his head he grinned evilly before moving to brush the snow from Spider-man’s shoulders, instead slipping some under his collar.

“Ack!” Spider-man yelped, dancing away and trying to remove the rapidly melting ice from his neck and back.

Daredevil laughed at his plight, arms crossed over his belly as he doubled over.

“Not cool man!” Spider-man complained, “you really are the devil.”

DD slowly got a hold of himself again, calming to chuckles and huffs of air that turned to mist in front of his mouth. “How about I make it up to you? Hot chocolate?”

Spider-man grinned, “I’d never say no to that! Honestly I’m freezing! Man, snow and spiders isn't a good mix.”

Daredevil smirked, "are you sure it's not 'spandex and snow' that's the bad mix, you're making me cold just 'looking' at you!"

Spider-man huffed "I've got long johns on under this, but yeah... hot chocolate is sounding better by the minute... RACE YOU!!!!"

Daredevil stood still, waiting for the younger hero to figure out that he was going the wrong direction. There was a coffee place a few blocks back that Daredevil's nose told him had some pretty good hot chocolate.


	2. Devil May Cry

Daredevil staggers away from the toughest fight of the week, victorious, but not unscathed, and the world is rippling in even more chaos than usual. Sensation rakes across his brain with all the pleasantry of nails on a chalkboard.

Daredevil tries to get a grip on his rapidly spiraling control. The world stills slightly, but he knows it won’t last. They weren’t shooting bullets, and he’d been hit. He doubted it was a tranquilizer or he’d feel more drowsy, but his concentration is slipping and in many ways that’s worse. He’s been drugged and is losing his sense of place.

His own heart is palpitating too erratically to provide any semblance of stability for a focus, so he searches for the next best thing. The scents and sounds of strangers wash over him and then one appears out of the maelstrom that gives Daredevil a feeling of familiarity and tentative safety.

He thinks they’re nearby, but it’s hard to tell with the way his impressionistic painting of the world keeps smudging and warping. He does his best to follow the scent anyway, forcing distractions to the side even as he starts to feel like he’s getting lost in the cacophony his own enhanced senses batter him with.

The heartbeat is stronger and there’s the smell of stale blood.

Daredevil takes a leap off the building, but midflight realizes that he can’t remember what he was jumping towards. He thinks it might be a fire escape, but it could also have been a window. He can’t tell. Where is he?

Then a smooth surface looms out of the chaos and he barely has time to bring his arms up before his body is crashing through glass.

The world flips and fragments. Daredevil can’t tell which way is up or down and then he’s slamming hard into what must be the ground. Or a floor?

He knows he isn’t on his feet anymore only because there are shards of glass digging into his left cheek and the taste of dust and shoe rubber is in his mouth with each inhale.

The heart he’s been tracking is right next to him and Daredevil starts slowly pushing himself up.

A car backfires in his ear and he aborts the action to instead roll onto his side, a hand flying up towards his ear with a wince. A man is cursing, he kicks the tire of the car and Daredevil wonders where the car came from. Hadn’t he just been-

A hand on his shoulder and a few semi-soft slaps to his face pulls Daredevil back to his body; the car and cursing man are gone.

The air is slow moving in a small room. Gunpowder and a heart like a drum.

“Hey, hey!” A gruff voice calls and Daredevil blinks at how close it is.

“Hey Red! Snap out of it.”

Daredevil groans, mental grasping onto the voice, heart, and the hand on his shoulder to reassure him that this was real. “Frank?” He asks, confused. “Where am- are- how?”

Frank snorts, “real eloquent Red, you came smashing through my window, I about nearly shot you.”

Daredevil huffs laughter, his ribs remind him that they may be broken, but he forces back the nausea and wonders what the opposite of defenestration is. Infenestration? Just fenestration?

Frank snaps his fingers and Daredevil flinches away with a grimace.

“Hey, stay with me here.” The Punisher orders, “I need you to tell me what happened and what you need.”

Daredevil gave a jerky nod and wet his lips, tasting blood, “uh… drugged I think? There were-“ he breaks off, head jerking as a car alarm goes off, but he forces it away and digs his fingers into Frank’s arm to ground himself again. He can practically feel the blood vessels popping and forming bruises, but Frank doesn’t make a sound beyond the ones that every living body makes. “Uh…” Daredevil tried, where was he?

Frank sighs, air slipping across his lips, whooshing through his lungs, breath smelling of coffee. “Okay, get onto the ‘what do you need?’ part.”

Daredevil reaches into his pocket and pulls out his battered burner phone, dropping it as soon as it’s out. He’s beginning to feel like spaghetti that’s just started to soften, all stiff and chewy where his bones are and flimsy and numb where his muscles should be. He giggles at the comparison.

Frank retrieves the phone before Daredevil can get his shaking hand to try for it again.

Belatedly, Daredevil remembers that Frank never cared who he was- doesn’t know who he is and therefore-

“Which of these numbers?” Frank asks, voice calm, but stern.

“Uuunnnggg….” Daredevil tries to reply, but is suddenly horribly aware of the presence of his own tongue in his mouth and the cold feeling of blood running down his side. His own breathing grates in his ears, blood rushing throughout, and sparks of pain from old injuries. Someone is crying and voices are overlapping on top of each other. The electricity buzzes in the walls, higher-pitched from the light bulb in the street light overhead. He is walking down an alley. There is a loud scraping as a young woman with too much perfume throws out a bag of trash behind-

There’s a scream and Daredevil is gasping at the pressure building up behind his eyes. Like they’re trying to pop out all on their own-

Water like rain is pounding on plastic, it echoes, then creaks as bare feet- rushing through pipes….

Distant sirens.

Foggy’s voice is worried, but Daredevil can’t hear his heart to confirm. There’s too much static and he knows that of course Foggy isn’t here, he shouldn’t be, it’s not-

Gunpowder and blood, the heart isn’t quite as slow now and Daredevil thinks he’s being pulled upright, but he can’t be sure because-

Car engines are rumbling through his chest and a subway screeches, it’s suddenly warmer, his heals drag on uneven boards, arguing, shouting, it smells like mold and alcohol. Gravel crunches under shoes, a cat screeches as a couple dogs chase it up a tree, someone else is praying to God to save them, and always- always the crying, screaming, sirens, pleas for help- someone. Blood on his tongue, copper in the air, the world itself is bleeding and screaming.

Throughout the overwhelming deluge of information, Daredevil can tell that something is on his face, sweaty and itchy against his eyes. Uncoordinated fingers scrabble at it and words repeat, vibrating in his throat, though he can’t hear them over everything else.

Hands that he couldn’t tell were pressing into his arms are suddenly removed and they reappear to-

A gunshot echoes in his ears and he flinches with a whimper of pain at the sound and grief remembered.

Hands, steadier than his own, pull off the thing on his face and fresh air plays off of his flushed face. Callused fingers are prodding at his head and eyelids.

Brakes screech from two different cars and there’s a crash as metal warps and crunches under high-speed impact. Someone’s food is burning, it makes his nose twitch with the need to sneeze.

“He’s f- ind” Frank’s voice fades in and out around the artificial sound of a movie being played nearby.

New softer hands are on Daredevil’s face, holding his head while the other stronger hands press his arms down.

“Matt!” Foggy shouts, heart like a hummingbird’s.

The sound of the world dampens because something clamps over his ears and it’s terrifying and relieving at the same time, but he stills can’t get a grip on his senses.

And Daredevil remembers that he wears a mask because he is a person and needs to keep it secret, but the mask has been removed, so now he’s just Matt and there’s too much information and he can’t breathe. He can’t think.

Mind controls the body. Mind controls the body. Mind controls the body. Mind controls the…. Mind controls…. Mind…. Wh-?

He stops fighting against everything to choke on the ache in his chest. Warm liquid trickles down his cheeks. He doesn’t have the mental capacity to figure out if it’s blood or tears.

He’s lost amid a hellish inferno.

~o0 POV the two Franks (hahaha) 0o~

Frank is making dinner.

It’s a simple and necessary part of life, repetitive, but sometimes it strikes him how funny it is. You go out into the war, bloody your hands, come back and clean your weapons, and then you make dinner. It’s almost ridiculous how domestic it is, shuffling onions and garlic as they sauté in a pan….

Of course the normalcy then has to be broken by a red-suited idiot crashing through his window.

Frank is crouched behind the counter with his handgun trained on the intruder before the glass has settled on the floor.

Most days Frank wouldn’t mind taking potshots when Daredevil barges into his business. But the red-clad vigilante usually takes his element of surprise with more finesse, so Frank hesitates long enough to become concerned when Daredevil doesn’t get back up.

His horned head jerks unpredictably a few times against the floor, glass leaving delicate cuts on his jaw, and only then does he start to get his arms under himself in a position to push up.

Frank sets his handgun down on the counter with cautious slowness and stands up. His eyes never leave Daredevil’s body, watching among tremors for any sign of the muscle bunching to indicate an attack.

A full-body flinch sends Daredevil onto his side and the hand not pinned under his own weight swipes drunkenly at his head before it drops to the floor again.

Frank’s walking over immediately, positive now that something is horribly wrong with Daredevil. And sure, he doesn’t care who the horn-head is or what he does so long is it doesn’t interfere with his work as the Punisher, but despite all their animosity… Red is a good man and Frank doesn’t want him dead.

Daredevil doesn’t move when Frank pats him down for injuries, doesn’t react at all, which tells him absolutely nothing about the physical state of his sometimes-ally, but tells him that mentally Daredevil isn't completely there.

Frank swallows, brow furrowed and shakes Daredevil’s shoulder lightly. “Hey!” He calls and Daredevil’s head tilts slightly in his direction, though his gaze remains fixed to the far wall. “Hey, hey!” Frank calls again, gently slapping Daredevil’s uninjured cheek. “Hey Red! Snap out of it.”

Finally a reaction, as Daredevil groans and says his name once in a confused tone. “Where am- are- how?” He stutters.

Frank snorts in relief, “real eloquent Red” he says, “you came smashing through my window, I about nearly shot you.”

Daredevil huffs and his lips twitch, and then his head starts listing to the side again.

Frank shakes his head with a resurgence of worry and snaps his fingers a few times by Red’s ear to get his attention. “Hey, stay with me here” he orders, “I need you to tell me what happened and what you need.”

Daredevil’s head jerks and he haltingly tries to explain “uh… drugged I think? There were-“ he breaks off with a spasm and Frank’s worried he’s going to have to slap him into lucidness again, but then Daredevil’s hand comes up to dig finger’s into Frank’s arm like that’s the only thing that exists and Frank’s too unnerved to complain.

“Uh…” Daredevil grunts, lips twisting in a way that tells Frank that he’s lost the narrative.

Frank sighs, realizing that in this state Daredevil isn’t going to be able to tell him much about what happened, so he moves on. “Okay” he says instead, “get onto the ‘what do you need?’ part.”

Daredevil’s expression of determined relief as he pulls out his burner phone just about breaks Frank’s heart, because Red’s usually so quick witted and focused and now here he’s struggling to even get himself help. Frank wonders why this is even happening, why did Red come to him of all people?

Daredevil’s hands are shaking too hard for him to keep his grip and he giggles as the phone slips away.

Frank snatches it up, clearly Red’s losing it. “Which of these numbers?” Frank demands and tries to burry his own growing distress under the semi-comforting tones he remembers from emergency hospitals back in the service.

“Uuuunnnggg….” Is the only reply Red is apparently capable of, which is not helpful in the slightest, and Frank can’t seem to get the vigilante’s attention again. Daredevil’s head is jerking around like he’s hallucinating and he’s not breathing right.

Frank curses and calls the first of two numbers in the burner’s memory, and he has no idea who it is because the number is marked only with an ‘N’. It almost rings out, but finally someone answers.

<”Damn it, this had better be good.”> Says the voice on the other end and Frank bites his lip because that doesn’t really sound like a friend of Red’s at all, but with Daredevil shaking on the floor next to him he doesn’t have many options.

“Daredevil is… compromised.” He eventually says, vague enough not to give much away, but pointed enough to get his meaning across.

<”Shit.”> Is the succinct reply, then sounds of movement come through and the man across the line is speaking again <”is there blood?”> he asks.

Frank shakes his head “not that I can see, but he’s… unresponsive. He said he was drugged before he lost lucidity.”

A raking sigh, then a sarcastic <”great. Text me an address and I’ll be over. I’ve got some things that may be able to help, just… uh… try to keep him from hurting himself and uh…. Shit…. Just try and reduce sensory input.”> He hangs up before Frank can ask for clarification.

Daredevil is still shaking, lying on glass and altogether looking rather pathetic, so Frank pulls himself together. He sends his address to the number on the phone, this place is just one of many safe houses anyway, and gets as good a grip as he can on Daredevil’s shoulders and hauls him up.

Red’s head lolls forward and he gasps, but still doesn’t seem very aware of what’s going on.

For lack of anywhere else, Frank deposits the vigilante on the cot in the next room. It’s got no windows, so he hopes it’ll count towards whatever ‘reducing sensory input’ means. Then he returns to the kitchenette of the small apartment and turns off the stove. His onions are blackened to nothing and the pan is probably beyond salvaging. With the prospect of a complete stranger arriving at any moment, Frank takes the time to slip on a harness so he can have a couple guns in easy reach before returning to the room where Daredevil is still moving feebly on the cot.

Of course that’s when it gets worse.

Daredevil’s head still won’t settle, but he starts scratching at the mask on his face and mumbling under his breath.

Frank moves closer and tries to pull his hands away from his face, but Red isn’t having it and now Frank is near enough to hear “I can’t see, I can’t see, I can’t see…” repeating over and over in a desperate mantra.

Frank grits his teeth and curses because maybe Daredevil is injured, and maybe he just couldn’t see it because of the mask, and he has to take it off to make sure there’s not some ghastly head wound, but he didn’t care who Red was and Daredevil wouldn’t want him to know.

Daredevil flinches and whimpers in obvious pain.

Frank’s mind is made up.

He presses Daredevil’s arms down, then lets go and before he can doubt his resolve pulls the mask off. He probes for head wounds with his fingers because of the dim lighting and finds nothing.

Frantic knocking on the door makes Frank jump and he darts into the front room to fling it open. The familiar sight of Franklin Nelson makes him gape, but then Nelson is pushing past him with only an exasperated headshake.

Frank leads him to back room and Nelson flips the lights on. “We need to be able to see” he comments at Frank’s shock.

But then, with Red’s face lit up, Frank realizes that he recognizes Daredevil as his other lawyer and understands why the lights wouldn’t count as ‘sensory input’. “He’s fucking blind” Frank breathes in awe and relief. Maybe Red doesn’t have a head wound.

Nelson drops a backpack off his shoulders and rummages inside to pull out some heavy-duty headphones, but Daredevil is moving too much for Nelson to slip them over his ears.

Frank steps in and holds Daredevil’s arms, pressing down to stop him from wiggling so much.

Nelson gives him a grateful nod and tries to hold Red’s head still. “Matt!” He shouts and Daredevil stiffens, long enough for Nelson to put the headphones on.

Daredevil remains tense and then he’s mumbling again, “mind controls the body, mind controls the body, mind controls the body, mind controls the…” he blinks, brow furrowing, “mind controls… mind….” He chokes out a breath and is silent.

Nelson sits back, “he always told me he hated hospitals because they were loud and drugs made him have a harder time sorting through it all.” He speaks softly. “With senses like his… I guess even outside of a hospital it can get to be too much.”

Frank slowly moved back too, “is that how he does it?” His voice equally low as he gestures at his face.

Nelson nods, “I guess, he never really explained it all that well, I never really gave him the chance to.”

Daredevil inhales shakily, making them both look up. There are tears trickling down his cheeks, and even though he’s now perfectly still, his eyes still dart about tracking something that they can’t perceive and he can’t actually see.

“What do we do, Nelson?” Frank asks quietly.

“Call me Foggy” the lawyer replies with false levity and begins digging in his bag again, “I’m pretty sure he can still hear through those headphones, but it’s lessened. Now we have to try and do that for his other senses.” Foggy hands Frank a scented candle while he pulls out a set of soft clothes.

Frank lights the candle and sets it near Red’s head, but not so close that he could knock it over.

Meanwhile, Foggy tries to remove Daredevil’s armor.

Foggy is still struggling with it after the candle is lit, so Frank silently starts helping. Together they manage to maneuver Matt out of the armor and into the sweatshirt and pants without needing to remove the headphones or hurt him.

And it’s weird now, Frank thinks, that he knows who Daredevil is and that out of the armor he’s a blind lawyer who still tries his hardest to help people.

Surreal.

Foggy starts shoving the pieces of armor into a duffle bag that had been folded up in the bottom of his backpack, and once it’s zipped up it feels like suddenly it’s not Foggy, the Punisher, and Daredevil in a room, but Foggy, Frank, and Matt.

But Foggy’s eyeing him warily, so maybe they’re not quite on the same page. Frank leans back against the wall and crosses his arms over his knees and watches.

Foggy glances at Matt, whose eyes are closed now, before glaring coldly at Frank again. “You gonna shoot me if I talk straight?”

Frank snorts softly, “no.”

Foggy swallows and looks back at Matt. “I don’t like you.” Foggy says and glares at Frank again, “I mean, I don’t like that Matt runs around at night and comes to work the next day with barely treated injuries, but I really don’t like you.”

Frank’s eyes flick down, “yeah… I’m not sure there’s really anyone left who likes me.” He can’t bring himself to care much either.

Foggy’s jaw clenches, but he doesn’t move, he’s the type to tear people apart verbally if at all possible. “Matt’s a good guy.” Foggy says instead, “he’s stupid and reckless and will more than likely get us both disbarred one day, but everything he does is because he’s a good man and he wants to help everyone.”

Frank nods with a bemused smile, “even assholes like me.” He agrees.

Foggy snorts, “it makes him a horrible friend sometimes and makes him even worse at taking care of himself the rest of the time. So…” Foggy met Frank’s eyes, “even though I’m at the end of my rope with vigilantes, this is me trying to take care of Matt in the only way I can…. Now, I don’t understand you’re whole ‘code’ and why it lets you feel it’s okay to be judge, jury, and executioner. I don’t understand why you’d attack Matt one night and keep him safe on this one. But, I swear to god that if you ever shoot him again, I will come for you. Because finding him like that scared the crap out of me and Matt may be a secretive s.o.b, but he’s my friend and my partner, and he doesn’t deserve your shit on top of his own.”

Frank looks away “if he gets in my way-“

“You keep him out of the crossfire.” Foggy cuts him off. “I know I’m not going to be able to keep you two from fighting, Matt’s Catholic and your methods don’t really line up with his moral standards, but you will keep your guns aimed on those who deserve it, and not Matt.”

Frank clasps his hands together, rubbing at the calluses as he considers. “Fine. You got yourself a deal, counselor.”

Foggy nods, “now… just because I don’t want any evidence of this conversation, I’m going to have to trust your word rather than get that in writing.”

Frank chuckles and the atmosphere lightens. “Hope… uh… hope he didn’t suffer too bad.” He gestures to his head at Foggy’s look. “I know headshots can be… tricky… even when they don’t kill.”

Foggy shrugs, “I honestly don’t know. He never said anything.”

“F-foggy?” Matt calls hoarsely.

Foggy sits straighter, “you back with us, buddy?”

“Us?” Matt struggles to prop himself up and groans.

Foggy wraps an arm around his shoulder “yeah, you went to Punisher of all people.”

“Castle?” Matt asks.

Frank taps his fingernails on the floor, “right here Red.”

Matt frowns.

“How you feeling?” Foggy asks before they can get into any awkward questions.

Matt winces, “horrible. Ugh… everything is….” He trails off.

Foggy frowns too, “okay, you’re oddly inarticulate, just talk to me. You promised to tell me the truth.”

“It’s still too loud.” Matt says hesitantly, “the earplugs help, but… still, everything’s too… everything.” He waves a hand, “I’m lost underwater, drowning… there’s white noise and static and I can’t find the remote to switch to a channel that works.”

Foggy nods, “I just nodded” he says out of habit.

Matt looks intrigued, “I couldn’t tell” he says honestly.

“Well” Foggy mutters, “how about we get you home while you’re semi-coherent and you can sleep it off.” He helps pull Matt up so he’s standing.

“Wait!” Matt exclaims, “there’s someone else here!”

“That’s Frank” Foggy says slowly.

“Oh…”

Frank has to pretend like he didn’t reach for his handgun thinking that Red was talking about someone else. “I’ll get the duffle.” He offers.

Foggy nods, “great, I borrowed a neighbor’s car, it’s just outside.”

They manage to get a very confused Matt and his armor out to the car, though they have to stop a couple times to remind him where he is and what’s happening.

Before Foggy drives them away he glances at Frank a last time and flicks his eyes toward Matt meaningfully then back again.

Frank nods and steps back onto the sidewalk as the car disappears down the road. He supposes he forgot that while he has nobody, Red does, and though he didn’t care who Red was under the mask, it doesn’t mean there wasn’t someone under there who would be missed. Frank snorts and shuffles back up to his apartment.

So much for a domestic evening dinner, now he has to move to a new safe house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried out a different… uh… tense in this piece of writing. Typically I write third-person past tense I believe… frequently with an emphasis on one person’s experience over another’s, but this one is… present tense? Ugh… shows you how much grammar stuff I know. I don’t know when this could possibly take place, best I could say it’s nearing the end of season 2 of Netflix’s Daredevil outside of the actual plot arc, but whatever. Ha! Characters I write seem to have 2 settings: getting the shit beat out of them, doing the beating, or both.
> 
> And damn, I sometimes get overwhelmed by what I can perceive, I can only imagine how much worse it would be for Daredevil. Hence the kind of off-kilter, distracted tone to Matt's perspective. How is he not insane?


	3. Photo Evidence

Jessica stumbles down the darkened street with her shoulders slumped and thumbs tucked into her pockets. For once her awkward gait is not caused by her consumption of alcohol, but plain old bone weariness. She’s been bemoaning her lack of whiskey for hours… but you need money for booze, and to get money you’ve got to work.

She’d followed the latest cheater for days before he finally made to meet with his illicit partner, which damn… why couldn’t people draw the curtains? It made her job a hell of a lot easier, but she really hadn’t needed to see first hand what the guy’s preferences were.

If she wasn’t already mentally scarred beyond all repair, Jessica would label the experience ‘traumatizing’.

And she doesn’t have whiskey with her to dull the memories.

Jessica exhales harshly and is vaguely amused at the sight of her own breath. No drink, freezing night, 3 in the morning, running on two hours of sleep over the last two days. God it’s miserable. Life is overrated and people are crappy, and her mind seems stuck on all the horrible truths and ugliness of her city.

She stops, tired eyes caught by the streetlights and neon reflecting off the residual rain puddled in the grimy street. It’s oddly hypnotic, and while she’d love nothing more than to get home and crash for the next sixteen hours, she finds her aching feet unwilling to take another step.

Struck by paranoia, Jessica glances around. The streets are as empty as one would expect for the hour, not a hint of life aside from herself.

The solitude is liberating in a way. At this time of night, on this street, the city is hers and hers alone. The sad, grungy street… the light reflecting off the water in a parody of beauty, her own lonely shadow… this is her world.

She blames her exhaustion for the melancholic impulse that prompts her to pull the lens cap off her camera and take some shots of the street.

But finally she can breathe easy again and her legs respond when she continues toward her apartment.

Her brain is in such a fugue when she jiggles open the door, that Jessica hardly has the presence of mind to do more than take a swig of water, relieve her bladder, and fall into bed. Her stomach grumbles, but she ignores it in favor of smothering her face in her pillow.

It’s late the next day when Jessica finally wakes up to the mother of all headaches and her stomach trying to eat itself. The sun burns at her eyes and she doesn’t remember the photos she took during the half-forgotten trudge hone until she accidentally prints one with the rest of the photos she has to give her client later that day.

Jessica’s eyes rove over the photo, slightly furrowed at the memory of her own grief. With a snort she drops the print into the trash and goes to delete the rest from her computer.

The files hover over the trash icon, and it takes a minute for Jessica to sigh, roll her eyes and drop them back on her desktop. She creates a new folder and thinks briefly over what to call it before just leaving it ‘untitled’. The images of the street lit only by neon and flickering bulbs fall into the folder and she slams her laptop shut with a strange feeling of conflicted peace. Somehow, those pictures capture something that resonates with her, in some ways that makes her feel weak, but… it also gives her a sense of security, comfort with herself.

Stupid.

She pulls on her jacket and stalks out to get some breakfast, maybe a coffee… and some goddamn whiskey.


End file.
